Unto the Breach
by Raphiael
Summary: Collection of ficlets and snippets, potentially including the entire FE series. Theme: Magic - Azel and Alvis, FE4.
1. Smile: Mildain, Percival

**Author's notes: **This is my take on the fe100 challenge (you can find it at fe100 . livejournal . com – just take out the spaces). It will be tagged with the most recent setting and characters. These will probably be rough, unedited, and experimental, but if anything stands out, feel free to point it out.

**#69: Smile**

**Game:** FE6

**Characters:** Elphin/Mildain, Percival

**Warnings/Notes:** This was originally for fe_contest on livejournal, before I decided it didn't fit the prompt and did something completely different. Yay.

Even now, his mirth sings in his unseeing eyes, twitches at the corners of his thin lips, lingers in the dance-like sway of his hips. He is not ashamed to stumble, or to gasp and reach for Percival's arm, but he is too proud to flinch at the whispers trailing behind him.

"Fragile," he hears in an echo from the halls. "Like a woman."

He does not answer, and restrains his knight from doing so on his behalf. "Let them think so," he whispers, and then he smiles as if he is deaf instead of blind.

Like a woman – sunlight curls spilling over slender shoulders and down silk-clad back, long, thin fingers stretching across Percival's arm as they might across a lyre. Perhaps fit for a princess. Hardly fit for a king.

He does not see the smirk flash across the face of the man before him, the son of one of the many nobles slain in the war, or the way it flits away the moment Percival looks in that direction. He does not see that this noble's son is a burly man with a heavy jaw and meaty hands that could snap his wrists at a moment's notice. But he hears it in the introduction, in the slightest emphasis on _king_ before his name, in the creak of the chair and the groan that follows it as the man takes his seat.

"Has the offer been considered?" An offer of alliances – more like a threat of hostility, of another war bubbling beneath the surface. An offer that would have Etruria on its knees, begging for the favor of traitors.

"It has." He does not see the smile return on the other man's face, or see the satisfaction in the way he leans forward and licks his meaty lips. "And we shall refuse. The title of your father has been awarded to a man more loyal than he, and with him it shall remain."

It is enough to hear the slight gasp, the stammering shock so foreign in such delicate dealings. "You must reconsider."

The mirth in his unseeing eyes dances down to his lips and pulls them into a mocking smile. "And why? Because my kingdom needs your support, your men? Or. . . because her king is 'fragile', 'like a woman'?"

Silence stretches across the room and pools between them, until the fragile king speaks again.

"Perhaps in your time in exile, you have forgotten some things. I imagine Etrurian women are not as delicate as you expected."

They are not words fit for a princess or a king. They are purely his own, like the smile on his face and the song in his steps, so different from the clamor he hears, but does not see, as the petitioner and his men are escorted out of the room. He will face whatever comes next with laughter.


	2. The Blood of a Dragon: Nils, Ninian

**#19: Those Born with the Blood of a Dragon**

**Game:** FE7

**Characters:** Nils, Ninian

**Warnings/Notes:** Also done as a drabble challenge for lacunose.

Nils had no love of being "special". "Special", after all, was just a nice way of saying, different, strange, foreign, and he had never wanted that. He would have been perfectly content with normal hair and normal eyes, and a normal life without running or hiding.

And yet, it was always with a bit of envy that the passers-by would say things like "That's a _special_ talent you have" or "Children like you, you're _special_" as they dropped coins before him at the sound of his flute. Enough for food for himself and Ninian, whose dancing was also a _special_ thing.

It wasn't quite as bothersome as when they asked him to play something a bit _happier_, as if he was some cute little child who existed for their amusement. Even that was not as bad as when the men asked Ninian to bend a bit lower, to move "more like a woman". Nils never heard requests like that for the other urchins who gathered in the alleys to beg for a bit of money or food.

That was why he hated being special. It wasn't the difference between himself and the others, or the strangeness of his looks and his sister's. He'd learned, by the sound of his flute and the pattern of Ninian's steps, that being "special" meant he was less than a person - not a boy with a song, but a thing to be chased and possessed, as if the sound of his music and the red of his eyes could be bottled up and worn like a charm.


	3. Free Time: Soren

**#61: . . .Free Time**

**Game:** FE9 or 10

**Characters:** Soren

**Warnings/Notes:** Also done as a drabble challenge for r_amythest and in rain.

There was always something calming about taking inventory after a battle. It wasn't a normal thing to enjoy, Soren was quite aware of that, but he took comfort in it nonetheless. Counting the number of blades they had left in good repair, running his fingers across the tops of the vulnerary bottles and murmuring the running tally as he went, it was almost enough to silence his racing thoughts. Almost.

He liked to think that the panic that came with each battle wasn't obvious to anyone but himself. He didn't need anyone asking if he was all right - certainly not Mist, who seemed to go through vulneraries the way Ilyana went through rations, or Boyd, who didn't seem to understand how expensive throwing axes were or how silly it was to just throw them at _everything._ His moments of distress were his alone, shared with no one.

After all, who really needed to know that his heart felt as if it might explode every time he saw his commander take a blow? Who needed to know that every time he heard a shout, his imagination went wild with visions of blood staining blue hair, of a once-strong body splayed lifeless in the grass? It wasn't as if these were things that would ever happen, not to Ike, never. No one needed to know that Soren imagined.

All anyone needed to know was that they needed six vulneraries, two swords, and one new throwing axe. For Soren, that was enough.


	4. Knight&Princess:Geoffrey,Elincia,Renning

**#07: Knight and Princess**

**Game:** FE10

**Characters:** Geoffrey, Renning, Elincia

**Warnings/Notes:** Also done as a drabble challenge for crimsonmorgan.

"So are you going to tell her?"

Geoffrey nearly chokes on his steak at the question posed by his former commander. He coughs and sputters as Lucia giggles and Elincia, of course, frets.

"Ask who what? My lord uncle - oh! Geoffrey! Are you quite all right?" She pushes a flask of liquid his way, but the ever-sweet concern on her face only worsens his choking.

"I knew it, you're unworthy of that post," Renning chuckles, before going back to his meal. Geoffrey manages to look up and glare, though his face is still red and he can't quite breathe. "I thought you might make an honest woman of her, but-"

"There's a lying woman here?" Elincia asks, her lovely eyes wide in concern. "It isn't a crime, of course, but I would like to speak with her and hear her concerns!"

Geoffrey hasn't the will to object. He only shrugs and looks back to his steak, trying again to find the words.

"Your knight, dear niece, is smitten with you," Renning cuts in, and his often stoic face is stretched into a satisfied smirk.

Geoffrey has never wished more that he knew magic. He imagines, at this moment, that Bastian could disappear.


	5. That Cute Child: Fado, Ephraim, Eirika

**#71: That Cute Child**

**Game:** FE8

**Characters:** Fado, Ephraim, Eirika

**Warnings/Notes:** Also done as a drabble challenge for crimsonmorgan.

There was a small hand in each of Fado's large one's, a child at both sides, each clad in black like their father. A grim occasion, one he had not foreseen.

_I always thought I'd go before you._ Not for the first time, Fado had been mistaken. He squeezed each of the little hands at his sides as he watched the coffin traveling ahead, simple and plain, according to tradition. _King and pauper lie alike in the ground, return to ash in equal turn_. So Latona had advised, and so it would be done.

"Is Mother coming back?" came the smaller of the voices. Fado swallowed hard; he thought he'd explained this already. But then, the twins were small, barely even six years old. It was still hard to make things clear to them, especially when he could barely accept them himself.

"No, Eirika, dear. Mother is not coming back."

Not for the first time, his answer was met with tears, and a little squeak of "But I miss her!" Fado squeezed her hand tighter, bent down for just a moment to kiss her head.

To his other side, he saw his son, staring stonefaced at the coffin. He spared Ephraim a kiss as well, but was met with no response.

_His father's son,_ Vigarde had commented in a letter, upon hearing the description. And Fado thought perhaps he had been right.


	6. Thanks: Knoll, Lyon

**#82: Thanks**

**Game:** FE8

**Characters:** Lyon, Knoll

**Warnings/Notes:** Also done as a drabble challenge for rethira.

Knoll slowly opened one eye and let out a groggy mumble as he realized he had, once again, fallen asleep with his face stuck firmly onto the pages of a book. Luckily, no one had caught him this time. If one of the elder mages found him like that, surely they would scare him awake taunt him about it later, if they didn't just take a moment to draw on his face with ink or do terrible, embarrassing things with his hair.

He slowly gained his bearings and realized that the whole library smelled oddly of. . . cinnamon, of all things. With his luck, that meant someone had stuck one odd branch or another in his hair. Again. He quickly sat up and reached up to see if he was correct, but saw instead that not only was his hair fine (if a bit mussed), but that he was not alone.

"Ah! Prince Lyon, what are you doing here so early?" He quickly straightened up, certain he was in no position to be seen by royalty, even if it was someone as friendly as his prince.

"It's not early. It's nearly noon," Lyon answered, pushing a bowl of something warm toward Knoll. "You should really try to sleep in your _bed_, you know."

Knoll sheepishly nodded his agreement, then quickly looked around the room to make sure they were alone. "Did anyone else see me?"

"No; when I found you here last night, I locked the doors. No one else came in." Lyon smiled and pressed a spoon into Knoll's hand. "You need to take better care of yourself. Why don't you rest today?"

"But I have so much research-"

"_Rest_." Lyon nudged the bowl closer. "And eat."

Knoll eyed the bowl suspiciously, sure that Lyon had done something foolish to obtain such a richly spiced meal at this odd hour of the day. "I-if you insist," he mumbled, before taking a bite.


	7. Hero: Marth

**#06: Hero**

**Game:** FE11

**Characters:** Marth

**Warnings/Notes:** Also done as a drabble challenge for Jayden und Verwelkt.

"Someday, I'm going to be a hero."

It was a normal ambition for a boy who'd been raised on tales of the ancient hero whose bloodline he shared, and whose father's voice won the hearts of his kingdom time and time again. It was no surprise to anyone when Marth of Altea insisted on emulating both of them and taking up the sword. He had no talent for magic or taste for learning it, not like his sister or mother. No, the prince's true passion showed as he slid his fingers under the basket of his rapier and fought duel after duel in the castle yards, when he pored over heavy tomes telling of Anri's deeds and the history thereafter.

Heroes, he learned, face trials with courage and pain with strength. They didn't stand by as their allies sacrificed themselves, or run away from those who needed them. A hero wouldn't be standing at the side of a foreign ship, staring across the ocean at the land he'd failed to protect.

"Someday, I'm going to be a hero," he murmured to himself again, as he at last turned his back on the only land he'd ever known. He swore he'd make it happen, no matter what it cost him.


	8. Can't Be Anyone But You: Lyn

**#23: Can't Be Anyone But You**

**Game:** FE7

**Characters:** Lyn

**Warnings/Notes:** Also done as a drabble challenge for Improvisation.

It took a moment for Lyn to recognize herself in the mirror, with her hair piled into an extravagant updo (she'd heard a name for it from the ladies who fussed with it, but couldn't remember what it sounded like at all) and her face painted up like the dolls she'd be shown by the merchants in Bulgar. It was bad enough that the gown she'd been lent was heavy and itchy and made her feel as if she might suffocate. To see her face looking back at her, almost like someone else's, was the most frightening thing she'd faced yet.

"Pieces like these are quite fashionable in Etruria, I hear," the servant who was helping her dress - a strange thing in and of itself - chirped as she draped a lavish choker about Lyn's throat, so different from the simple ornaments Lyn was used to wearing on festival days back home.

Back home? No, _this_ was home. There was nothing left for Lyn in Sacae, no family to return to. Her grandfather was here, in Caelin, as were all the friends she'd met on the way. She felt her fists clench beneath the belled sleeves of the gown. The servant - and Lyn wished she knew the girl's name more than anything - didn't seem to notice. She only smiled and said something like "You are so beautiful," and Lyn tried to decide if she agreed.

It wasn't _bad_, she supposed, only . . . _different_. And wasn't it said that the grass in the plains was strongest when it swayed in the wind - retaining its length and color, but bending to fit the world around it? Beneath the coat of cosmetics and the weight of the rich gowns, she was still Lyn of the Lorca, daughter of Hassar. Nothing would ever change that. 


	9. Persuasion: Guy, Karel

**#47: Persuasion (more like PURRsuasion amirite)**

**Game:** FE7

**Characters:** Karel, Guy

**Warnings/Notes:** Also done as a drabble challenge for noms on LJ.

"What is _that_?"

Guy couldn't recall his mentor ever sounding quite so. . . _dangerous_, which, given Karel's usual demeanor, was indeed saying something. He swallowed hard and snuggled the little ball of fuzz closer to his chest, fearing it might end up like the enemies strewn across the battlefield. He rather preferred the idea of a furry friend that would remain in one piece, and it seemed unlikely that Karel would feel the same way.

"It's only a little kitten," he said, squeezing the animal just a bit in a gesture of protection. The animal squeaked slightly, just as Karel pulled closer with an almost feral look on his face.

"A cat? Why did you bring it _here_?"

Guy did have to admit, there was nothing especially swordsman-like about carrying a teeny little bundle of adorability - which he decided on the spot was a word - in his tunic. "Well, uh, Matthew found it, and he said he was going to give it to Serra, but then she was allergic, and then-"

Halfway through his rambling explanation, Karel held out his hand with that look on his face - the one that meant "if you don't like the thought of my sword in your belly, you'll do as I say." Or at least, that was what Guy imagined it to say. Karel wasn't quite so wordy. "Give it to me," the older swordsman hissed, and despite the buckets of love and adoration Guy had for his fuzzy little cat friend, he complied.

Karel held the kitten in one palm and stared at it. Guy was already imagining the sort of sounds a cat might make when it was squished. Oddly enough, they would have been rather cute in his head, had it not been for the images that went along with them.

Karel stared at the kitten. The kitten stared at Karel. And then finally, a sound shattered the silence (which was ridden with angst and worry and turmoil and other bad things.)

"It is. . . . adorable~~~~~~" Karel cooed, before kissing the thing on the head and rubbing its fuzzy little tummy. It was possibly the strangest, and yet the most adorable, thing Guy had ever seen.


	10. Help Me: Elphin, Percival

**#****74: Help Me**

**Game:** FE6

**Characters:** Elphin, Percival. And yes, I am in love with this pairing.

**Warnings/Notes:** Also a one word meme challenge, word being "perfectionist".

Percival's patience has always been astounding. It amazes Elphin, how he manages to stay so calm, so still. He hears no movement, at least, and feels no tension beneath his fingers, save for the usual press of Percival's lips into a frown.

He had heard the same frown in Percival's voice when he finally noticed – "_Have I offended you, Pr-"_ that slight hesitation, that careful avoidance – "_Elphin? You will not look at me."_ Some other man might have cursed, or shouted, or spewed soppy words of pity at the quiet explanation. Percival had not. He had bowed his head the slightest bit – Elphin heard the rustle of his hair, the drop of his cape – and promised softly, "_You have my eyes. Always."_

Elphin almost touches those eyes now, but he stops before he reaches them, letting his fingers stay close . The skin there is softer than he remembers, thin and fragile, like crepe paper and silk. He can readily imagine the jut of Percival's cheekbones, the strong lines of his slightly furrowed brows, but he can't quite envision the knight general's eyes looking so _tired._

He feels Percival's long lashes – the sort of thing a courtier would pride himself upon, the sort of thing Percival would never notice – brush against his fingertips in a flutter, and he can almost picture that. Percival, casting his gaze to the side and lidding his eyes, clenching his teeth, setting his sharp jaw.

"Forgive my forwardness," Percival starts, his voice hushed and low, as if the words might somehow betray his master, "but you seem unwell. Perhaps –" he pauses, and Elphin can feel his breath on his hands – "it is time you rest."

"I am well, General." Percival's frown tightens at the title; Elphin can feel it in the purse of his cheeks and the tension at his brow. "I just wish to remember you."

"Remember me?"

"I want to remember what you look like."

He wants to get every detail right in his mind: the shape of Percival's eyes, the soft, subtle curve of his mouth, the gentle slope of his throat and shoulders, but it isn't quite right yet. The little inconsistencies – the tired skin, the slight graze of stubble at his cheeks, the indent of a scar at his chin – are too imperfect. He isn't sure he wants to remember Percival like this, but he can't quite place what he had been like before. Perhaps this is all he'll ever have. Perhaps, in the end, he is to blame.

"Take as long as you need," Percival murmurs through his frown, just as Elphin pulls his fragile hands away and smiles.

"That," he says finally, "was enough."


	11. A Long Way To Go: Lyon, Vigarde

**#43: ****You've Got A Long Way To Go Before You're That Good**

**Game:** FE8

**Characters:** Lyon, Vigarde

**Warnings/Notes:** Also done as a drabble challenge for crimsonmorgan.

Lyon only knows his father's smile from a distance. Even when he sees it up close, he knows it isn't really for him. Perhaps it's for the color of his eyes, the shape of his lips, the curve of his jaw, all things, he's heard, are from his mother's side, but never for Lyon himself.

That smile is for Glen, who is everything a son should be, loyal, brave, strong, a warrior in the very spirit of Grado himself. It's for Selena, a lesser mage on only magic's worth, but one who can ride for miles without rest and rush into battle without fearing she might faint. It's for the rows of soldiers lined up at Duessel's command, able young men and women ready to fight and die for their country, their emperor. It is not for Lyon.

What is for Lyon, and only for Lyon, is his father's deepest frown. It spreads on his aged face every time Lyon makes the mistake of mentioning his magic, or stammers in the middle of an address, or stops in the hall to catch his breath. It brings out the lines in Vigarde's face, dark and angry across his brow and at the edges of his thin lips, reminders of just how tired the man is, of just how tiring Lyon is.

"You are my only son," he would say with that frown, every time Lyon asked – and he did ask often, once – if he is disappointed, if he is upset. Nothing more, and nothing less, and so Lyon has stopped asking. Even without the question, he knows the real answer: "You are my only son. I wish you were not."

Lyon doesn't blame him.


	12. LongHaired SwordWielding Beauty

**#28: Long-Haired Sword-Wielding Beauty**

**Game: FE10**

**Warnings/Notes:** Elincia/Lucia, for Archsage Julz. Pounded out in roughly 10 minutes, so it's kind of rough. Warning for mentions of abuse, hair pulling, hinted vague trauma, all that bad stuff.

"Don't worry so much about it. I. . . I quite like it, actually."

Lucia looked up at the sudden intrusion of a familiar voice and realized that her fingers were, once again, toying with the ragged edges of her hair, right where they hit the bone of her chin. She couldn't quite get used to the faint tickle at the back of her neck, the way it flew up and into her face at even the slightest breeze, the effort it took to keep it from hitting her face.

"Ah, Queen Elincia, I-"

Her queen silenced her with a gentle smile, a smile Lucia knew is not as serene as it appears. She took a seat, just a bit closer than the distance Lucia considered appropriate, and shook her head.

"I know you know you have other duties to tend to. Don't look so concerned. It's not as if I'm going to scold you, after all."

Lucia knew she should have. A strong queen must be firm and never play favorites, lest those weak spots be preyed upon in times of war. Oh, Lucia knew that well.

"I should return to them. Yes." Lucia couldn't even remember what it was she was doing, but she'd think of something. She was off to- oh, see to the squires training with her brother, yes, that had to have been it- and then. . . .

"Would it make you feel better about it," Elincia ventured, "if I cut mine, too?" Before Lucia could refuse, Elincia's fingers were twined ever-so-gently in the ends of her too-short hair, stroking the choppy ends delicately, as if they were as fragile as glass.

"Please, don't." Lucia didn't think she could bear the sight, never mind the idea. It brought to mind images of her queen, her Elincia, thrown on the ground, dirtied, broken, jerked up by the ends of her thick ropey braid, a sword tip dancing along the flesh of her pale throat, lingering there only to sweep up in the wrong direction and- "No, Your Majesty. Please, do not. Not for my sake."

Elincia was no longer smiling. Lucia felt naked before her. "Then. . . know, at least, that I see no shame on you, Lady Lucia."

Lucia did not feel any less sullied. She closed her eyes nonetheless and gave a nod in reply. "I. . .I thank you. My queen. . .Elincia."


	13. Magic: Azel, Alvis

**Note: **This isn't for an FE100 prompt, and I'm not going to pretend it is; it was for an unrelated thing. The prompt was Alvis&Azel, magic/magical, for Rethira.

* * *

There are days when Azel wishes he could do something other than magic. Not something _easier_, necessarily. Only _different_.

It comes more naturally to him than swordplay does, and though Lex seems perfectly happy with his axe, it doesn't seem like something Azel thinks he could manage. And there seems to be something savage, something awful about the thought of running someone through with the head of a spear. There's no question - magic is what he was meant to do.

But he isn't meant for it the way Alvis is. Alvis, who glances over the spell Azel has been trying to master for weeks and manages it as easily as he might let out a sigh. Alvis, whose mouth makes the unpronounceable into poetry. Alvis, who must know that Azel will never, ever work magic like he can, and who never fails to look disappointed at every reminder. Azel thinks he finds a new reminder every day.

"Stay close to me," Alvis says from time to time. When he was a child, Azel thought it had to be because Alvis cared for him, that like himself, Alvis didn't want to be alone. Now, he thinks, it's only that they both know he's too weak to manage on his own.

_I could wield an axe better than Alvis could_, he thinks wistfully at times, but he knows even that is likely a lie.


End file.
